Crossroads
by Charis M
Summary: "She cannot live like this, starving for crumbs, letting hope build up only to see it dashed again." The crossroads has always been a place for hard choices. [Milady, at the end of Season 2.]


**Crossroads  
**

 _For the anonymous prompt "Oliver and Ann in any universe (All those times you left me. you left me alone when I needed you the most but this time I am leaving you. I don't want to but I need to. If you ever really loved me you will let me go. I gave up myself to be with you and I lost you again and again. Now it is time I find myself)"._

 _Because I am still all verklempt over how season 2 ended, especially with the prospect of no resolution in the upcoming season looming larger. It's a lovely prompt, anon, and a lovely sort of idea, and I hope I did it justice!_

* * *

In her nightmares she relives, again and again, his departures.

Rope scrapes against her neck, dust billows about her knees, her voice echoes unanswered in her ears. The events blur together but the emotions surrounding them are the same, anger and anguish in equal measure, because to care is to bleed and she's never cared about anyone as fiercely as she does him, for good or for ill. And she wakes time and again choking on her own heart, unable to breathe for how deeply memory knifes into her, lies there tangled in sweat-soaked shift and anchors her fingers into the blankets and reminds herself that she is alive, that she is whole, that she –

(Blood roaring in her ears and sticky on her hands; the tip of a sword pressing sharp against her collarbone.)

– is a liar, because how can she ever be whole when each time he pushes her away, whether in large or small ways, reopens old wounds? She cannot live like this, starving for crumbs, letting hope build up only to see it dashed again. And one thing she knows, with the same bone-deep certainty that had gripped her when she'd realised he would be her downfall, is that she wants to live.

And yet she lingers, deceives herself (though not them, not _him_ , not about anything that matters) into thinking that surely this time things will change. Surely this time they can move beyond and find common ground once more, and yet she knows him better than she knows herself some days, and she knows the look in his eyes. And she is tired, so tired, of being the one left open and empty and yearning and above all else _alone_. She does not know what will happen to her if she breaks anew, frozen as he moves away once more.

"Meet me," she tells him, more than half a challenge, knowing even as she does that he never will – but he does not answer and she does not push against his silence, because she knows equally well that this time will be different, and that she cannot be left waiting for him again –

She stands there later, twisting hands into a skirt that feels as heavy and oppressive as those nightmarish memories, fighting the urge to tear her high-collared blouse open so she can breathe, and wonders what might happen if she did stay – wonders if she does not know him as well as she thinks, whether he _will_ come, whether she has the strength to face abandonment again (never mind that she's the one turning away this time, the one who has said "come find me"). The thought of those long-ago days – the last time she'd felt happy, free, _alive_ – keeps her waiting, trembling on the edge of something she dares not name.

The clatter of unfamiliar hooves shakes her from her stupor; she forces her hands to unclench, draws in an unsteady breath. Far away to the west the sun is sinking lower, gilding the treetops. There is a chill on the air, the first faint breath of winter.

If he were to come, she wonders, who would it be: the captain, the lover, the hangman? And who would be waiting for him, when she knows nothing of herself save that she can no longer stomach what she has become? She does not believe in souls, but even if this world is more cruel than any hell could be surely there must be a chance at some small absolution, some way to carve out a place where she can be Anne – a place where she can learn who Anne is, when she's not wearing some mask or another.

 _Let him be the one left behind now,_ she thinks, but it lacks vehemence, and before she finishes that thought she's peeling one glove from her hand, dropping it underfoot as she strides back to the waiting carriage. Let him come, if he will, and make her words as much invitation and challenge as weary entreaty; if he knows her half as well as she knows him, then surely he will understand this.

She must find herself first.


End file.
